The moon carves her claw into the night,
Nothing is alive except
The fathomless infinity of darkness
Sulking in a white solitude.
      The lavished night
      Lays her hair upon
      A lonely pulsar,
      The body of silences
      Which bring ideas to life....
There is only the word
In the deep abyss of thoughts
And death is but a Nightstalker,
The sad desires envelope the lone mind
And trembles the broken heart.

The tremors of light cut away
To an absurd blackness,
The night is alive and distant,
The moon submerges
Into sapphire waters
Running in silence toward
An empty sky black.

I awaken to primitive forces,
My hand at her hip,
Like two flawed crystals
With eager flashes
With no grace in morning ***.

The longings drained,
And a hangover settles over noon.

The most uncomfortable peculiarities
Sit in like an unwanted listener,
Like a vagrant flower she eats
Whatever I threw on the table.

And I never knew my ex this well,
Still at least I knew her last name.

Inflated situation with irony
And absurdities between adults
Who for all adulthood are acting
Like nervous teens,
There's to be no encore ***.

"I'll call you"

Was that a question?
I wonder,
I close my door like the saddest clown.

Pale, bloodless forms, untouchable forms
On beams of whiteness, snow capped
Forms, vague translucent forms,
A sacrificed vision....

Forms of a prophetic body, virginal
Bright innocence in the fire of Saints,
Wandering the silences drenched
In illusion of slow agonizing temptation,

Incandescent harmonies like fallen angels,
The color of blood moons and patron gods,
Suspension of memories in the hesitant
Afterglows of the soothing sight, silent....

Crying the psalms of ecstatic angels
In sensual malices  fertilizing the innocence
In a subtle cascade of last moments,
The light just over the darkness, dawn's mystery

Infinite forms, ethereality of sobbing sounds,
The ideal form of death and birth,
The dream is an exalted stanza,
Sterilization of the mind, exotic forms....

Requiem of the private sufferings,
Form of the lonely charade,
Magnifying the essential need of the other,
Form of chastity for the *****...

The the golden pollen fall upon the dance,
The dancing form of a black swan,
Luminosities under the lunar glistening,
Deeply, subtlety....

Primal forms, animalistic in the body
When the aura is sensually appealing
Gilded upon her ******* and curvature
Like rolling hills under a storm,

Forms like crystalline glory under
Said light with a court of stars,
Vibration of light currents flawed by
Peculiar prints of the flesh

Forms of courage, gusts of love,
Crimson depths of the soul,
Forms like vanity into the black dress,
Conquest of lustrous desires.....

Forms like yours, forms like mine
Bleeding into foreign rivers,
The Dream is a fantastical whirlpool,
The form is confusing and terrifying and
Wonderful....

If only the world weren't so big,
All these souls would pass by my
Door:

And through my window cruising
I see a magnolia flowered sorrow,
The kind with moon beam eyes
And darkens your heart when you
See it;

Why is she in pain,
All alone in the grey.....
She has a wall surrounding her
Until the last day of hope
And a turbulent river encircling her.

Ah, but her steps are like the dove's,
Tranquil,
For gentlemen's sake I have to offer my
Hand holding hers like fragile balloon
Set off in the air, getting too close
To the sun and the continuity of the light,
So bright, it might burst in my hand.

She only needs some money,
I tell her to get in,
I'll buy her a meal.
She enters with grief,
The kind like in this poem,
But from her gentle eyes
The nocturnal sense is born
And the stars with her eyes.
I am taken,
What sweetness in her voice,
She asks me for a lemonade
As something familiar to herself,
The longing she has missed.

Why doesn't she get off the streets,
What holds her here?
I see the shake in her arm,
The tiredness of her body,
But she does not want to be saved.

I know her goodness
Had more than a conversation within,
That a life wished for better dreams
Haunts like dawn and dusk,
Touching her like a ghost.

"I need my fix"

I giver her ten dollars.
What horrid reality she lives in,
She walks away,
Turns back and offers a sentiment,
" I needed this meal, and
Thanks for just being nice"

Her hope is barefoot and barren,
Who will save her life?
I only know soon I will
Be a voice, an echo in her soul.

It wasn't a smooth journey,
Twists and turns at every corner
And there were whispered words
Of a premature death among the discord
Of his selfish persona, he wanted to
Know what it's like when you die.

Along the extreme elongated portico
Held in captivating glory of falling sun
Attached to a man sitting on sunsets
Alone in a chair with an empty coffee cup,
Dedpoet wrote his final verses:

I am not the harmonious fluke,
But the orchestrated chaos of the soul,
I flee no challenges, save life, whose teeth
Have sunken deeply as two rivals
At once, I am the coronation of effigies
Whom laughed behind their masked
Intentions, I sit on the pedestal of irony.

I strung magic words like pearls
And spoke like winged creatures through
Gentle air, both volatile strings pulled
Because the violins were in tune,
Alas, I am the curse to mine own life,
The fool who believes in love,
Both lovely and perverse,
My soul is a crystal pale glance
With moist and starry eyed conflicts,
I destroy the flower with regrets.

And now at the precious end
I gallantly provide a word of lasting torture,
Meet me at the gallows,
A sun with a court of stars
And let us fade into the light
As though into the shadows.

Dear Roaches,

   Please stay out of my coffee mug
In the mornings, I'll leave you bread crumbs
Or whatever it is you eat on the floor
When I make my sandwiches in the morn.
     ( I'm sure we can come to some
Sort of agreement)
   And perhaps I will forget to wash a dish
Or two and leave it out with just enough
To taste and delight yourselves in.
    But if I find you in my mug
Or my coffee machine, I will break
Out the Raid and other chemical
Weapons at my disposal, and sure I know
You will procreate faster than I can
Buy poison so let's make some kind
Of deal?
    Though it may not be a banquet,
I'm sure I can leave the occasional mess,
    So how bout it?

        Your housemate,
         Dedpoet

If I was a real poet
I would write about the world
Around me, the living problems
We share commonly.
I met your eyes on the way,
They prefer the pitter patter
Of small minded half empty cups.
I desire the beauty you write about
But I hate that we escape our world
With distilled words of selfish
Inward feverous double edged nothingness!
Oh, if I were a poet
I'd be humble
And facing tomorrow with hope
With fortitude of today, unflinching,
Uncompromising with no promises.
But every reader needs an escape,
And I'm happy to provide ignorant bliss.

Perhaps with cleft eyes
He grasped the form of woman;
    To what region of being
Did He want to tempt the Saints?
And men tripping over themselves
Until the sky plunges beyond her skyline
Chasing horizons like waken dreams
      Conjuring the vanishing moment
He entwined himself in the essense
Of Her,
Of She,
Of Woman!
(I write knowing I too am fool
For the taste of her wine)
Welcome to the vineyard of slaughtered vine,
Trampled grapes,
Vessels of drunken madness!

     Imagery of her transparency,
     The energetic torture of her touch,
     The burning flame with lustrous embers,
Soft harmony of her fingers
As she flows onto my body
Like some supreme sculptor,
Blossom me with your masterful touch,
Woman, created by God
To accept a blood stained lover!
Lost man to lost girl
In tunnels of obsidian,
The bonsage of our love,
Woman, ancient name of desire,
Abstracted spectre of your body
Sets men to explode like a sun!

Such a wondrously created being
Set before the eyes of barbaric confusion.

The clarity of the quarter moon
Voicing itself toward the waters,
       The purity of self absorbed moments
Discovered in the nocturnal prowess...
       Receive the night
As the fathoming echoes stay there,
       A bird sings,
Edges blur over hushing fountains,
      The world is a song of transformation.

Though their bodies were not strangers,
They did not know each other.
She needed no storytelling,
Nor promises that would never
Reach the ears of God.
He gets up and leaves,
If she's lucky, she will be asleep
When he does,
And forgetting or remembering
A dream is never a choice.